CHAPTER XV
FATE AND BILLY COPELAND
WHEN Nan left Copeland the night of the Kinney party she promised to call him the next day. As telephoning from home was hazardous, she made an excuse for going downtown and called from a department store. Copeland was not in, and she repeated her call several times without reaching him. Copeland, if she had known it, was in the directors’ room at the Western National, discussing his affairs with the president.
She had a superstitious awe of petty frustrations of her plans and hopes. The Celt in her was alert for signs and miraculous interventions. It occurred to her that perhaps the angels of light or darkness were bent upon interfering; the idea kindled her imagination.
In the street she ran into Fanny Copeland. To meet Billy’s former wife, just when she was trying to perfect plans for marrying Billy, was altogether dismaying.
“You dear child, I’m so glad to see you!” cried Fanny, taking both Nan’s hands. “I was just wondering whether I had time to run up to the house. How is Mr. Farley?”
“Papa hasn’t been quite so well,” Nan answered; “but it’s only a slight cold. I had to come downtown on an errand,” she explained.
She experienced once more a feeling of self-consciousness, of unreality, in meeting Fanny face to face: within a day or two she might be another Mrs. Copeland! And yet Billy had once loved this woman, undeniably; and she had loved him—she might, for all Nan knew, still love him. She envied the little woman her equanimity, her poise, her good cheer. If she were only like that, instead of the wobbly weather-vane she knew herself to be! Why hadn’t she a firm grip on life instead of a succession of fatuous clutches at nothing! Nan wished, as she had wished a thousand times, that troublesome problems would not rise up to vex her.
The Farley chauffeur had run his machine to the sidewalk to pick her up.
“I hope your father will be better soon,” said Fanny. “Give him my love, won’t you?”
Nan’s eyes followed her as the car got under way.
When she reached home she met a special delivery messenger at the door. Her heart jumped; it was a note from Billy, who had risked sending her a message that might very easily have fallen under her foster-father’s eye. She thrust it into her pocket unopened and ran upstairs.
“Well, you’re back again, are you?” Farley said harshly.
“Yes, papa; I had an errand I couldn’t put off.”
“It’s always been a mystery to me,” he grumbled, “what women find to trot downtown for so much.”
“Pins!” she replied lightly. “We always need little things. I met Mrs. Copeland—looking for pins, too; so you see I’m not the only one.”
“You saw her, did you?” he asked with a show of eagerness.
“Yes; I met her as I was coming out of Sterling’s. She was just starting home.”
“I’d been hoping she’d stop in to see me, but she’s a busy woman.”
“She has a lot to do, of course. If you’d like to see her I’ll telephone her to come in for luncheon to-morrow.”
He appeared to be pondering this and his hands opened and shut several times before he answered.
“No; never mind. She’s busy and it really doesn’t matter.” He stared vacantly at the ceiling for a moment. “I guess that’s all fixed now,” he added musingly, apparently forgetting her.
She was anxious to be off to her room to read Billy’s note; but she lingered, curious as to what further he might have to say about Fanny.
“You like that woman, don’t you, Nan? You and she get on—you haven’t found any traces of ill-feeling toward you?”
His small gray eyes were bent upon her with an odd expression of mingled hostility and kindness.
“Of course I like her, papa; and I believe she likes me. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t like me!”
“No reason!” he caught her up contemptuously.
She knew that he was thinking of Billy. His face twitched as a wave of anger seized him.
“That man is a scoundrel!” he blurted. “If he hadn’t been he’d never have treated that woman as he did!”
“It doesn’t seem to worry her much!” she flashed back at him. “I don’t know a happier woman anywhere!”
She realized instantly that the remark was unfortunate. He pointed a shaking finger at her.
“That woman,” he said, pronouncing the words with ominous deliberation, “ought to get down on her knees every night and thank God that she’s rid of him! That great bully, that worthless loafer! But I’ll show him a few things! If that blackguard thinks he can put anything over on me he’ll find that I’m smarter than he thinks I am! You remember that!”
“You must be quiet, Mr. Farley,” admonished Miss Rankin, who had been standing by the window; “the doctor said you weren’t to excite yourself.”
“I’m not excited,” he flared. “Doctors and lawyers make a nice mess of this world. They don’t any of ’em know anything!”
He gave himself an impatient twitch and several documents slipped from under his pillow. He clutched them nervously and thrust them back.
Nan was jubilant for a moment in the knowledge that she knew what those documents contained—devices for humiliating her after he was gone. If only he knew how little she cared! He thought of nothing but his money and means of keeping it from her.
“Go away; I want to think,” he said gruffly.
Nan was grateful for this dismissal, and a moment later had softly closed her door and was eagerly reading Copeland’s message. It covered three letter-sheets and the daring of its contents caused her heart to beat wildly.
What he proposed was immediate marriage. There was to be a military wedding that night at the church in the next block. Nan, he assumed, would attend. At the end of the ceremony she had merely to pass out of the church and his machine would be waiting around the corner. She could pack a suit-case, ostensibly filled with articles for the cleaner’s, and he would have a messenger call for it. They would run up to Lafayette, where he had a married cousin who would have a minister ready to marry them; then take a train for Chicago and return the next day and have it out with Farley.
Nan had never shared Copeland’s faith in the idea that once they were married they might safely rely on Farley’s forgiveness. Farley’s passionate outbreaks at the mere mention of Copeland pretty effectually disposed of that hope. But that was not so important, for, in spite of Farley’s unfavorable opinion of Copeland’s business capacity and Billy’s own complaint of hard times, she had an idea that Copeland was well off, if not rich. To outward appearances, the drug business was as flourishing now as in the days when Farley was still active in its affairs. It was the way of business men to “talk poor” even when they were most prosperous; this had, at least, always been Farley’s way.
The gaunt figure in the room across the hall rose wraithlike before her, giving her pause. Yes, the Farleys had been kind to her; they had caught her away from the world’s rough hand and had done all that it was in their power to do to make a decent, self-respecting woman of her. Her advantages had been equal to those enjoyed by most of the girls she knew. Many people—the town’s “old stock,” Farley’s substantial neighbors—would see nothing romantic or amusing in her flight with Copeland. They would call her the basest ingrate; she could fancy them saying that blood will tell; that after all she was a nobody, a girl without background or antecedents, whom the Farleys had picked up, out of the kindness of their simple hearts, and that she had taken the first chance to slap them in the face.
Then she remembered the will that had given her the key to Farley’s intentions. Possibly the new will, which Thurston had brought to the house that day, cut her expectations to an even lower figure....
It pleased her to think that she was studying the matter dispassionately, arguing with herself both for and against Billy’s plan. It was more honest to marry Copeland now and be done with it than to wait and marry him after Farley’s death. This she found a particularly satisfying argument in favor of marrying him at once. Her histrionic sense responded to the suggestion of an elopement; it would be a great lark, besides bringing her deliverance from the iron hand of Farley. Yes; she would do it! Her pulses tingled as she visualized herself as the chief figure in an event that would stir the town. It was now four o’clock. Copeland had written that at five a messenger would call for her suit-case, and all she had to do was to step into his car when she came out of the church.
She was downstairs listening for the bell when the messenger rang. As she handed him the suit-case she felt herself already launched upon a great adventure. While she was at the door the afternoon paper arrived and she carried it up to Farley and read him the headlines.
She had her dinner with him in his room. There was a pathos in his lean frame, his deep-furrowed brow, in the restless, gnarled hands. She was not so happy over her plans as she had expected to be. She kept saying to herself that it wasn’t quite fair—not an honest return for all the kindnesses of her foster-parents—to run away and leave this broken old man. As she thought of it, every unkind word he had said to her had been merited; she had lied to him, disobeyed him, and tricked him.
“What’s the matter with your appetite, Nan?” he asked suddenly. “Seems to me you’ve looked a little peaked lately. Maybe you don’t get enough exercise now we’ve got the machine.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly well,” she replied hastily.
“Well, you’ve been cooped up here all summer. You’d better take a trip this winter. We’ll keep a lookout for somebody that’s goin’ South and get ’em to take you along.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary, papa. I never felt better in my life.”
“Isn’t this the night for that Parish girl’s wedding?” he asked later.
“Yes; I thought I’d go,” she answered carelessly. “It’s at the Congregational Church, and I can go alone.”
“All right; you be sure to go. You never saw an army wedding? I guess ’most everybody will be there.”
When he reminded her that it was time to dress she answered indifferently that she didn’t care to go to the reception, and that the gown she had on would be perfectly suitable.
“I’ll just watch the show from a back seat, papa; you can see a wedding better from the rear, anyhow.”
“Well, don’t hurry back on my account.”
She had been afraid that he would raise some objection to her going without an escort; but he made no comment.
She ran her eyes over the things in her room—photographs of girls she had known at boarding-school, trifles for the toilet-table that had been given her on birthdays and holidays. It was a big comfortable room, the largest bedroom in the house, with a window-seat that had been built specially for her when she came home from school. She glanced over the trinkets that littered the mantel, and took from its leathern case a medal she had won in school for excellence in recitations. On the wall hung a photograph of herself as Rosalind, a part she had played in an out-of-doors presentation of “As You Like It.”...
She must leave some explanation of her absence—so she sat down at her desk and wrote:—
Dear Papa:—
Please don’t be hard on me, but I’ve run away to marry Mr. Copeland. We are going to Lafayette to his cousin’s and shall be married at her house to-night. I hope you won’t be hard on me; I shall explain everything to you when I see you and I think you will understand. We shall be back very soon and I will let you know where I shall be.
She hesitated a moment and then closed with “Your loving daughter, Nan.” She thrust this into an envelope, addressed it in a bold hand to Timothy Farley, Esq., and placed it under a small silver box on the mantel.
She stood a moment at the door, then closed it softly and went in to say good-night to Farley. He took the hand on which she had half-drawn her glove and held it while his eyes slowly surveyed her.
“I didn’t know whether you’d wear a hat to an evening wedding. I never know about those things.”
“Oh, this is such a foolish little thing, papa; you’d hardly call it a hat,” she laughed.
“Well, don’t let one of those army officers pick you up and carry you off. I want to hold on to you a little longer.”
As she bent to kiss him tears sprang to her eyes. Face to face with it, there was nothing heroic, nothing romantic in abandoning the kindest friend she was ever likely to know, and in a fashion so shamelessly abrupt and cruel.
“Good-night, papa!” she cried bravely and tripped downstairs, humming to keep up her courage.
She absently took her latch-key from a bowl on the hall table and did not remember until she had thrust it into her glove as she went down the steps that she would have no use for it. It was the finest of autumn nights and many were walking to the church; there was a flutter of white raiment, and a festal gayety marked the street. She waited for those immediately in sight to pass before leaving the yard and then walked toward the church.
She eluded an officer resplendent in military dress who started toward her and stole into the nearest seat. The subdued happiness that seemed to thrill the atmosphere, the organist’s preludings, the air of expectancy intensified her sense of detachment and remoteness.
The notes of the “Lohengrin” march roused her from her reverie and she craned her neck for a first sight of the attendants and the bride.
Just before the benediction she left, and was soon in the side street where Billy was to leave his car. She had expected him to be in readiness, but he had evidently waited for the end of the ceremony—which seemed absurd when they were so soon to have a wedding of their own! It was inconsiderate of him to keep her waiting. The street began to fill and she loitered, ill at ease, while the organ trumpeted joyfully.
Then she saw the familiar white roadster, with Billy in the chauffeur’s seat, turning into the side street where several policemen were already directing the movements of the parked carriages and motors toward the church entrance. His overcoat was flung open and the light of the lamp at the intersecting streets smote upon his shirt bosom. It was ridiculous for him to have put on evening clothes and a silk hat when he had a long drive before him! The policemen bawled to him not to interfere with the traffic. Ignoring their signals he drove his car forward. Nan watched with mounting anger the disturbance he was creating. The crowd that had assembled in the hope of catching a glimpse of the bride now found Copeland and his altercation with the police much more diverting.
“Billy Copeland’s drunk again,” some one behind Nan remarked contemptuously.
The white car suddenly darted forward and crashed into a motor that was advancing in line toward the corner, causing a stampede among the waiting vehicles.
While the police were separating the two cars, Nan caught sight of Eaton, who seemed to be trying to persuade the policemen of Copeland’s good intentions. Billy’s voice was perfectly audible to the spectators as he demanded to be let alone.
“They haven’t got any right to block this street; it’s against the law to shut up a street that way!”
The policemen dragged him from the seat and a chauffeur from one of the waiting cars jumped in and backed the machine out of the way. Nan waited uncertainly to see what disposition the police were making of Billy; but having lifted the blockade they left him to his own devices. He had been drinking; that was the only imaginable explanation of his conduct, and her newly established confidence in him was gone. However, it would be best to wait and attempt to speak to him, as he might mingle in the crowd and make inquiries for her that would publish the fact that they had planned flight.
Suddenly she heard her name spoken, and turned to find Eaton beside her.
“Too bad about Copeland,” he remarked in his usual careless fashion; “but one of those policemen promised to see that he went home.”
She was bewildered by his sudden appearance. Eaton never missed anything; he would certainly make note of her gown and hat as not proper for occasions of highest ceremony. Nor was it likely that he had overlooked the two suitcases strapped to the rear of Billy’s car.
“Looked for you all over the church, and had given you up,” Eaton was saying. “You can’t say no—simply got to have you! Stupid to be pulling off a wedding the night we’re dedicating the new swimming-pool at the Wright Settlement House. Programme all shot to pieces, but Mamie Pembroke’s going to sing and you’ve got to do a recitation. Favor to an old friend! They dumped the full responsibility on me at six o’clock—six, mind you!”
Nan bewildered, uncertain, suffered him to pilot her round the corner, wondering how much he knew, and trying to adjust herself to this new situation. A car that she recognized as the Pembrokes’ stood at the curb.
“Oh, come right along, Nan; there’s no use saying you won’t!” cried Mamie Pembroke.
The Pembrokes were among those who had dropped her after she became identified with the Kinneys, and her rage at Copeland was mitigated by their cordiality.
“Hello, Mamie! What on earth do you want with me!”
“Oh, it’s a lark; one of this crazy Eaton man’s ideas.”
Nan knew that she had been recognized by many people, and that even if Copeland had not made a fool of himself the elopement was now out of the question. She felt giddy and leaned heavily on Eaton’s arm as he helped her into the car.
“You were alone, weren’t you, Nan?” Eaton asked as the machine started.
“Yes,” she faltered, settling back into a seat beside Mrs. Pembroke.
“Then we’d better stop at your house so Mr. Farley won’t be troubled about you.”
As she had not meant to return at all, it seemed absurd to go back now to say that she was going to a settlement house entertainment and would be home in an hour or so. The telltale letter could hardly have been found yet and she must dispose of it immediately. The car whirled round to the Farleys’ and Nan let herself in with her key.
Farley was awake, reading a magazine article on “The Ohio in the Civil War.”
“Back already! Getting married doesn’t take long, does it?—not as long as getting out of it!”
“Oh, the wedding was stunning!” she cried breathlessly. “I never saw so much gold braid in my life. I’m going with the Pembrokes and Mr. Eaton down to dedicate a swimming-pool at the Wright Settlement House. I just stopped to tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.”
“Tom Pembroke going down there?” he growled. “I thought that tank was for poor boys. What’s Eaton got to do with it?”
She explained that Eaton was substituting for the president of the Settlement House Association, who had been called from town, and that he had asked her to recite something.
“Well, ‘The Ole Swimmin’ Hole’ will come in handy. I always like the way you do that. Run along now!”
She darted into her room and found the letter just as she had left it on the mantel. She tore it into strips and threw them into her beribboned waste-paper basket. Her revulsion of feeling was complete. It was like waking from a nightmare to find herself secure amid familiar surroundings. She turned to Farley’s room again and impulsively bent and kissed him.
“Ain’t you gone yet?” he demanded, with the gruffness that often concealed his pleasure.
“I’m off for sure this time,” she called back. “Thanks for suggesting ‘The Ole Swimmin’ Hole’—that’s just the thing!”
They found the hall packed with an impatient crowd. Eaton led the way to the platform and opened the exercises without formality. The superintendent of the house dealt in statistics as to the service rendered by the Settlement. Mamie Pembroke sang “The Rosary” and responded to an encore.
Nan had not faced so large an audience since her appearance as Rosalind at school. She drew off her gloves before her name was announced, and as she stood up put aside her hat. At least half a dozen nationalities were represented in the auditorium; and she resolved to try first a sketch in which an Irishman, an Italian and a German debated in brisk dialogue the ownership of a sum of money. She had heard it done in vaudeville by a comedian of reputation and had mastered it for dinner-table uses. She had added to it, recast, and improved it, and she now gave it with all the spirit and nice differentiation of which she was capable. Eaton, who had heard her several times before, was surprised at her success; she had taken pains; and how often Eaton, in thinking of Nan, had wished she would take pains!
There was no ignoring the demand for more, and she gave another comic piece and added “The Ole Swimmin’ Hole” for good measure. She received her applause graciously and sat down wondering at her own happiness. Mrs. Pembroke patted her hand; she heard somebody saying, “Yes, Farley’s daughter,—adopted her when she was a child!”
Eaton was announcing the close of the programme. It was his pleasant office, he said, to deliver the natatorium that had been added to the Settlement House into the keeping of the people of the neighborhood.
“Many lives go to the making of a city like this. Most of you know little of the men who have built this city, but you profit by their care and labor as much as though you and your fathers had been born here. It is the hope of all of us who come here to meet you and to help you, if we can, that you may be builders yourselves, adding to the dignity and honor and prosperity of the community.
“Now, only one man besides myself knows who gave the money for the building of the swimming-pool. The other man is the donor himself. He is one of the old merchants of this city, a man known for his honesty and fair dealing. He told me not to mention his name; and I’m not going to do it. But I think that if some one who is very dear to him—the person who is the dearest of all in the world to him—should hand the keys to the superintendent, I should not be telling—and yet, you would understand who this kind friend is.”
He crossed the platform and handed Nan a bunch of keys.
“I’m sure,” he said, turning to the interested spectators, “that you will be glad to know that the keys to the bathhouse have come to you through Miss Farley.”
Tears sprang to Nan’s eyes as she rose and handed the keys to the superintendent amid cheers and applause. She was profoundly moved by the demonstration. They did not know—those simple foreign folk who lifted their faces in gratitude and admiration—that an hour earlier it had been in her heart to commit an act of grossest ingratitude against their benefactor. She turned away with infinite relief that the exercises were over, and followed the rest of the visitors to inspect the house. It was like Farley not to tell any one of his gift; and she felt like a fraud and a cheat to stand in his place, receiving praise that was intended for him.
On the way home she was very quiet. The many emotions of the day had so wearied her that she had no spirit to project herself into the future. And it seemed futile to attempt to forecast a day’s events, when she had, apparently, so little control of her own destiny.
“Hope Mr. Farley won’t abuse me for giving him away?” Eaton remarked, as he left her at the door. “But the temptation was too strong—couldn’t resist putting you into the picture. Your recitations made a big hit; and those people are real critics!”
She lay in the window-seat till daybreak, dreaming, staring at the stars.